The Old Tree

Patience is a shadow that clings to you when you least expect it, a quiet force that shapes you without being noticed. It is a lesson I had to learn the hard way, here in the Temple of Shadows, where time is not measured by the ticking of a clock, but by the passing of the seasons, and by the long stretches of silence between each breath.

The Warden led me to a small clearing deep within the temple, where a solitary tree grew. Its branches were twisted, gnarled, as though it had lived for centuries. The roots sank deep into the earth, unseen but undoubtedly strong. Its leaves, however, had begun to wither.

“This tree has been here longer than any of us,” the Warden said, his voice barely a whisper in the heavy air. “It has weathered storms, droughts, and the weight of time itself. Yet, despite all that, it has begun to wither. Why do you think that is?”

I glanced at the tree, its once vibrant leaves now fading. “Perhaps it has grown old.”

The Warden shook his head, his eyes glowing faintly in the dark. “It is not age that brings death, but impatience.”

I frowned. “Impatience?”

He nodded. “The tree grew too quickly once, pushing its roots too far, too fast, searching for the sun that could not reach it. It failed to understand that true growth does not rush. It unfolds slowly, patiently.”

He gestured to the tree. “You will tend to it. You will nourish it, not with haste, but with patience. You will sit beneath it every day, in silence, and watch as it heals. You will wait for its leaves to grow back, not in days, but in seasons.”

I sat beneath the tree, day after day, doing nothing but watch as its branches swayed in the wind. The world outside the temple seemed to move faster, the world of men rushing forward, while I remained still.

At first, I grew restless. The silence was unbearable, the waiting unendurable. But the longer I sat, the more I felt the weight of time passing around me. The days blurred into each other, and slowly, I began to see the tree not as something that needed fixing, but as a living thing that would heal in its own time. I realized that growth, like the shadows, could not be forced—it had to unfold on its own.

Weeks passed, and then months. The tree began to show signs of new growth, its leaves curling out slowly, cautiously, as if testing the air. But I knew it was not just the tree that had changed. I, too, had learned the lesson of patience.

The Warden returned one morning as the first leaf fully bloomed. He stood beside me, watching the tree in silence. “Patience is not about waiting,” he said quietly. “It is about understanding that what is worth having cannot be rushed. In time, all things come into their own. And so must you.”